


Egos and Entitlement

by crepesamillion



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Conflict of Interests, Entitled Old Men, Gen, M/M, Uninvited Guests
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-08-04 14:18:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16348322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crepesamillion/pseuds/crepesamillion
Summary: Wilson couldn't wait for Warbucks to leave. Neither could anyone else. ჯ One-shot.





	Egos and Entitlement

**Author's Note:**

> Alternatively titled: Warbucks Sucks and All the Survivors Think So.
> 
> Sorry, Klei.
> 
> This is more lighthearted and dialogue-focused than I usually write, but it was a spur-of-the-moment thing.

If Wilson heard one more “I say,” “chap,” or “what” that sounded more like the unceremonious dropping of a large wet fish on concrete, he’d yank his left leather oxford from his foot and chew off the heel in front of everyone. He swore it. He _would._

The campsite milled with calm activity, as it tended to do on crisp autumn evenings. Willow stoked the fire with a hefty stick. Wigfrid and Wolfgang tended the bubbling cookpot, which always received a much smaller proportion of the ingredients than their stomachs did. Wes sat near a half-rotten birchnut trunk, patiently teaching Webber how to mend a pair of threadbare stockings. Even Maxwell passed time studying the thousand-page tome he hauled around. Everyone had something to do. Everyone, of course, except Warbucks.

The old man had wandered into their camp less than two days ago, and seemed to have declared it more or less a kingdom of wildmen to conquer. As though he were researching them through observation, he offered no help with chores and made no effort to ask for introductions. He basked on a log like a toad and smacked on a smoldering pipe while spinning hours-long meandering tales of his visits to far-off lands.

“ . . . and why, that actually recalls to mind another episode of sorts I experienced while on an expedition to a Panamanian rainforest. You certainly would be _most_ surprised to hear what I discovered there. I say, it _was_ quite the fascinating experience. The whole thing began when I . . . “

Wilson flung an armful of kindling into the pile next to Willow. The sticks clacked and rattled, and for a brief and delicious moment overpowered the droning voice. He swatted flecks of bark from his waistcoat in sharp smacks.

Willow glanced up at him. Her freckled nose crinkled. Could she tell that he wanted to strangle somebody? No. Probably not. Willow wasn’t that astute. Anyway, he was an expert at keeping himself controlled. Gentlemen had to maintain emotions; it’s only proper, after all.

“Wilson.” Willow mouthed his name and beckoned him closer with a quick open-and-shut of her fingers. Then, silently, her lips forming round and exaggerated vowels: “Don’t lose your grip, okay? If you want me to wreck him, just give me the word.”

A laugh shot up Wilson’s throat before he realized it. Just as it hit his tongue, he looked away and ground his teeth together so hard that water flooded his eyes. He would rather lay face-down in the swamp than let Warbucks assume the laugh was in appreciation of his story. But Willow? Willow was amazing. If he hadn’t told her that before, he definitely would do it now. Never mind all the times she had insulted him, embarrassed him, dragged him around by the collar or punched his shoulder in an all-too-friendly way. Willow was a true woman of class.

“Thank you, Miss Willow.” He kept his voice in the range of a murmur instead of whisper. Warbucks was probably as old as some of the ruins he reminisced on excavating. A volcano could thunder behind him and he’d pause his story only long enough to give it a severe reprimand.

Wilson crouched in front of the fire. The heat wavered, smoothing his face in soft puffs. Willow stared back at him through the licking flames. A grin spread over her face like marmalade, digging into her ruddy cheeks.

“You look like you want to strangle someone.” She dug her teeth into her chapped lip with glee. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Wil? ‘Cause right now, I’m thinking that I really, really want to kick that old guy’s butt.”

“Excuse me?” Maxwell raised the brim of his straw hat just enough to aim a frigid glare at Willow. He faltered when Willow wrenched around to face him.

“I wasn’t talking about _you._ Mind your own business, why don’t’cha? Geez.”

Maxwell’s sharp shoulders sagged as the tension dissolved. “Of course, err, ma’am. Of course. Are we then discussing the most unfortunate arrival of our new guest?”

“Yeah.” Willow eased back, weight on her palms, and kicked out her heels. Yards away, Warbucks continued to lounge and describe a temple he had invaded somewhere beyond the equator.

“God,” Willow said.

Wilson winced. “I want to venture a guess that we’re all on the same page here.”

“Honestly.” Willow reached again for the stick and began to prod the fire. Each forceful jab sent embers crackling through the air like confetti. “You guys wanna burn him or what?”

“ _Miss_ Willow,” Wilson began, but beyond snapping the ‘Miss’ couldn’t feign any disapproval. He sighed. “Maybe we can do something more diplomatic. Not that I want to, but, you know.”

Willow’s face scrunched. “Who the heck cares about diplomacy? Listen to the old fart. He already thinks we’re cavemen or something. He’s gonna tote us back to London and teach us how to suck Darjeeling out of fancy porcelain thimbles with our pinkies out.”

“I must admit I agree with you both.” Maxwell splayed his tendony hands beneath the book and clapped it shut. “It’s been something less of a pleasure to listen to that tripe drag on from dawn to sunset. It’s even more insufferable around here than it was prior to his arrival.”

“Funny that you two didn’t become inseparable insufferable pals.”

“Higgsbury, if you will, please remain focused on the more pressing conflict at hand.”

Wilson simpered.

“So what are we gonna do about it?” Willow hiked her knees to her chest, wrapped her arm around them, and thrust the stick into the fire as if stabbing scorpions. Wilson moved his feet a little farther away.

Maxwell tapped one bone of a finger against the cover of the Codex. “Ahem. Perhaps I could be of assistance?”

“Well . . . maybe we should talk to the others.” Wilson chewed on the inside of his cheek, worrying it into lumps. “Find out what they think about it, and all.”

“What do _we_ think!”

A hoarse stage whisper erupted hot and heavy just behind his head. Wilson pitched forward, nearly tumbling like a pillbug into the firepit. Scrambling for balance, he caught himself on his knees. Willow choked on a hoot.

“Wuh——Woodie! Didn’t see you there.” Wilson sat again, legs crossed, boring his gaze into the fire. Heat crawled up his face. “You, uh, were listening in, huh?”

“I guess I couldn’t help overhearing. Mind if I join the company?”

“It can’t be made any worse at this point,” Maxwell mused. He tugged down the brim of the hat again to swathe his face in shadow, and cracked open his book.

Woodie lowered to the ground beside Wilson, grass tearing under his boots. He draped one arm over his knee and heaved a gusty sigh that ruffled his whiskers.

“Talking about that new fellow, eh?”

“Eh,” Wilson said without thinking. He blanched. “Err, yeah. Yes.”

“I can’t say I’m much fond of him, myself.” Woodie looked over his shoulder. Wilson leaned back. Warbucks reclined in the same position he had been in most of the day. The lull in the conversation brought bits of Warbucks’s monologue drifting to them. Something about Paraguay. Uruguay? Wilson couldn’t tell.

“I get the feeling he’s that sort.”

“That?”

“Right. You heard him, eh? Thinks he’s one of those big-timers. Different folks ain’t folks to him. They’re either beasts or loot, to hear him talk. Luce and I have been thinking, and we settled that this ain’t the best situation for us. Not too sure what the old hoser would do if he caught me at the wrong time.”

Wilson flinched. At the wrong time, Woodie would make an extremely large and extremely comfortable pelt rug. “You’re right. So that’s a vote from you, then. Do you have any ideas of what we should do? For the good of the group, and all.”

“I say we run him back to whatever highfalutin cranny he dropped out of.”

Wilson pressed his fingers into his forehead. Why did he bother to ask anybody for advice? “That’s better than Willow’s idea, at least.”

“You just wish you’d thought of it first.” Willow lifted her shoulder and fluttered her lashes.

He never knew what to say to her sometimes.

“Oh, would you look at that. Sunset.” The sun sank like a gob of honey behind blue-and-cherry clouds, washing trees and grass in a warm purple. Wilson stiffened his arms and stretched his fists above his head with a dramatic yawn that cracked his jaw.

“Are you sleepy already?” Willow squinted. “Old man.”

Maxwell turned to Willow once again, barely sparing the effort to push up the sagging brim of the hat. “What is it now?”

Willow directed an excruciatingly slow venomous glare his way.

“I’m not sleepy, exactly,” Wilson said as he roused to his feet. He brushed dry grass and pinecone bits from his trousers. “I’m just tired. Tired of listening to you-know-what.”

“Wil!” Willow squealed in dismay like a piglet wedged beneath a fence. “Don’t leave yet. We gotta figure out what to do about it. Him, I mean. I won’t be able to sleep tonight otherwise.”

Sometimes Wilson hated being bound by the obligations of a gentleman.

“Miss Willow,” he said, mustering all the somber dignity that abode in his hundred and ten pounds of existence: “I promise that as soon as my head hits the bedroll every cog in my brain will be working on nothing other than a solution to this situation.”

“I hope all three of them will be able to churn out something fast, then.”

Gentlemanly efforts were wasted on Willow.

Wilson plugged his hands into his pockets and trudged past Warbucks’s log-throne and toward the pocket of shadow-dripping trees near the corner of the camp. The pompous voice rolled on and on, empty as a bubble: “ . . . which, as you can imagine, was quite the sight for the denizens. What a marvel I must have been, what with my silver buckles and minted coins and spectacles! I say, their fascination was rather a match for yours when I strode into your quaint little village. I . . . “

Warbucks’s still being alive was the biggest marvel.

Wilson blew a sigh through his nose as he approached the felled tree where Wes and Webber sat. The edge of the tension that clawed in his gut melted.

“Mister Wilson! Mister Wilson! Look.” Webber dangled a sock. Loose threads protruded from it in all angles like hair on a cat rubbed the wrong way. “Mister Wes has been showing us how to sew. It’s fun!”

“Sew it is,” Wilson said on impulse, before remembering that some jokes worked best when scribbled in his journal. “Ahem. Looks like you’ve darned that one to heck and back, haven’t you, kiddo?”

“Uh-huh!” Webber poked the needle into the sock again, drawing another thread through it. “Sew. Sew. Sew.” His voice trailed into a hoarse hum.

Wilson glanced at Wes. Wes raised his shoulders in a sheepish shrug.

“Glad you’re enjoying yourself, Webber, but I think it’s time for bed, isn’t it?”

“Bed?” Webber glanced up. His circlets of spider eyes flashed gold in the last glints of sunlight. “Oh, no! Nighttime. We’re sleepy.” He clung to the sock with the same intensity that Willow clung to her teddy bear. “Night-night, Mister Wes and Mister Wilson. Good dreams and no bug bites.”

Wilson watched Webber wander off in search of Wendy. He shook his head.

“Wes, it’ll never cease to amaze me how you can entertain children with a sock and a sewing kit without putting on a puppet show.”

Wes pretended to examine a dandelion puff.

“ . . . Oh. Anyway! I’m headed for the tent. I’ll lose my mind if I can’t stuff a quilt over my head soon. You coming?”

Wes held up one finger. Wilson waited while Wes packed away the spools of thread and needles into the neat little tin.

“I guess with Webber’s chattering you haven’t had time to hear the awe-inspiring tales of the glory days from the new guy, huh?”

Wes continued to wind loose thread around the spool. His lips pressed together—barely, but enough that the black line of lipstick thinned out.

“Don’t worry. You’re not the only one.” Wilson flattened his palm beside his mouth to direct his words conspiratorially at Wes. “I discussed things with Willow and Woodie. Even Maxwell agrees with us. This guy is jamming up the works.”

Wes’s back tensed. He closed the tin with a snap.

“Be glad you can’t hear out of that side.” Wilson tapped his cheek. “You’d hate to catch every word that’s come out of his mouth. Not to mention how he’s essentially declared himself King of Nowheresville. Have you noticed? He lays around talking about all his treasure hunts and people he’s bossed around, takes whatever he pleases from our resources, and doesn’t bother to lift a finger to pluck a stem off a berry. Next thing you know, he’ll have Willow doing that for him.”

Wes grimaced. “Blegh.”

“I take it back. I don’t want to picture that either.” Wilson folded his arms and lowered his head. “I don’t feel like I’m being harsh when I say this, but the guy is more of a pain than Maxwell. And you _know_ where I stand with Maxwell.”

Wes turned beseeching eyes to him. He raised his hand, and his fingers stretched, poised and strong beneath the glove. Finally, he was going to sign and share his thoughts on the situation, giving advice and a soothing word——oh. He was reaching. Reaching for Wilson’s hand.

Wilson stared. Should he push his hand away and demand an explanation? He debated the thought. No. Not tonight. Wes always had his reasons and was a fair match for Willow when it came to being stubborn as a sequoia tree stump. He’d speak his mind on the matter when he chose to.

Wilson opened his hand to accept Wes’s and helped haul him to his feet.

“Come on, then. Stick your finger in your ear as we walk past you-know-who. It’ll save you from a headache.”

The twenty yards that stretched between them and the cured hide tent may as well have been twenty miles. The spot where Warbucks relaxed struck more fear into Wilson than a pile of mangled bones littered outside of a hound’s den. He gripped Wes’s hand tighter and sucked in a breath as he plunged forward.

_Don’t notice us, don’t notice us, don’t notice us——_

“I say!”

_God._

“You, there! Bite-sized chap in the worn-out waistcoat.”

Wilson clutched Wes’s hand hard enough to scrunch the bones together with a pop. “Wes? Is there someone else behind me in a waistcoat right now? There better be.”

Wes put his hand light as a butterfly on Wilson’s arm. “Shh.”

That was all it took. That gentle hush, and the rage that flared in Wilson’s gut subsided. He drew in a shuddering breath that stretched the seams of his lungs and turned to face the King of Nowheresville himself.

“Oh! Didn’t see you there.” Wilson forced a laugh as dry as beans rattling in an empty soup can. “I would have——”

“Who might you be, again?” Warbucks closed his gnarled fingers around his spectacles to adjust them on the bridge of his nose. “Winston, you said?”

Wilson’s heart crawled up a couple rungs of his ribcage. Behind him, Wes rubbed his shoulder soothingly.

“Actually,” Wilson said in the same tone he’d use to explain to someone the difference between osmosis and diffusion, “it’s Wilson. Wil-son. Wait. Actually, it’s Mr. Higgsbury.”

“Winston Pillsbury,” Warbucks repeated. He nodded with the air of a wizened sage. “Pleasure to be in your humble company, lad, a pleasure indeed. I don’t suppose you’ve overheard as I’ve introduced myself to your motley little cluster of companions?”

“Oh, trust me, I’ve heard.”

“Ah! Excellent! So this tribe understands English, I presume. I had my doubts what with the markedly little attention I’ve received.”

Wes’s gentle pats on Wilson’s shoulder quickened. Wilson held his breath. One. Two. Three. Four. He exhaled.

“My _friends_ understand English, yes. I don’t think that has much to do with it.”

“I’ve learned far less about your lives here than I expected.” Warbucks removed his spectacles with a flourish and buffed them with a spotless silk handkerchief. “Usually the groups I encounter are far more open with their habits and behaviors, whether hostile or welcoming. I’ve experienced quite the lukewarm response here. One would think I don’t exist. You’re quite a reserved people.”

If Warbucks found hostility more exciting, Wilson could oblige in showing hostility.

“We’re doing what we always do. Winter is coming. We’re not putting chores on hold to throw a party for any stranger who wanders out of the woods.” Especially when the stranger roamed into camp shouting "Hail!" like a monarch strutting toward a throne before a crowd of peasants.

“Fascinating!” Warbucks returned his spectacles to his nose. “Your people have quite the work ethic. I say, that reminds me of the days I traversed the forests of Africa and saw a massive swarm of legionary ants foraging for food. Have I told that one yet?”

“I’m sure you have. Twice, probably. Third time isn’t always a charm.”

Warbucks squinted at Wilson. His wooly eyebrows knitted together like oversized white caterpillars. “Well! Well, well. I do say.” He seemed, thankfully, at a loss for words. A bit uncomfortable, perhaps? Good. His gaze wandered in stiff increments, before finally coming to rest on Wes. As if only now seeing him, Warbucks leaned back a bit.

“I do beg your pardon, Mr. Pillsbury. Who, or dare I say, what is that?”

Wes’s fingers pressed into Wilson’s shoulders when he started. He recovered immediately, continuing to rub Wilson’s shoulders in gentle circles as if he had heard nothing.

Wilson tilted his chin upwards. “Excuse me?”

“That.” Warbucks gestured. “The painted one behind you. Is there a particular role here? I’m quite interested.”

“Wes?” For some reason, a blade of regret twisted into Wilson’s gut for mentioning Wes’s name. Warbucks didn’t need to know his name. He didn’t need to know anything, actually. “Of course he plays a role. He does as much to keep this camp sustained as anyone else does.”

“He? Ah! A worker, then.” Warbucks nodded again. “And the paint? Is there some sort of unique significance? I see no others with painted visages.”

Wilson knotted his fists at his sides. His nails bit into his palms and sent crackles of pain tingling up and down his arms. This man definitely must have had a full teapot dropped onto his head at some point. He’d traveled from the Himalayas to Peru and didn’t know a mime when he saw one?

“He’s a _mime._ A mime!” His voice shot up a few dozen decibels higher than he intended. The corners of his vision began to bleed into dark gray. Wes pressed close behind him. The _whump-whump_ of his heartbeat thudded against the back of Wilson’s head. It was fast.

“A mime? Most interesting indeed.” Warbucks’s hand meandered to his belt, where a magnifying glass hung from a loop. “Not a word uttered. Is he allowed to speak in your presence?”

Wickerbottom was wrong. She’d tried to reassure Wilson before, but he knew now that she was wrong. There _are_ stupid questions.

“Why wouldn’t he be?”

Warbucks cleared his throat with a “harrumph” and patted at the side of his nose with the handkerchief. “You see, I simply wondered how interpersonal dynamics work in this land. It’s not entirely ridiculous to assume that there are dominance customs in place.”

Wilson sucked in a breath that chilled his teeth to the roots and scalded his gums. Wes shifted closer and folded his arms around Wilson’s neck. Holding him back as if he were a snarling dog would do nothing to protect Warbucks.

“Why would we need dominance? We’re not a flock of chickens. We’re people! Human beings. Your good old _Homo sapiens_ , and I’ve read _On the Origin_ five times. Try to stick that one into your mustache and chew on it for a little while, hmm? What a nifty concept. I ought to——” Wilson clasped his hands at his front. Breathe. Breathe. Willow did say to just give her the word.

“Yes,” he said. He pinched his fingertips together. “Wes speaks his mind around me just as easily as anyone else. Not out loud, but he speaks nonetheless. And conversations with him tend to be pleasant, which is more than can be said for others.”

“I see.” Warbucks drummed his shriveled sunburnt fingers over his knee. “I was wondering if he had the capacity or if he was . . . ahem. And is it . . . normal to engage in such physical contact openly? I’m aware of cultures that embrace affection, but pardon me for being rather taken aback. A gentleman of my standing tends to be rather awkward in such situations, I’m sure you can imagine.”

Huh. There are really, _really_ stupid questions.

This floundering about over Wes’s arms being around him? Over a hug? If Warbucks knew what they did in the tent after hours he’d immediately go bald.

“Why don’t you tell me for a change? About where you come from. Is it normal there for couples to be affectionate?”

“In England?” Warbucks’s mustache rumpled. “Why, certainly. Of course. I——couples? I beg your pardon, old chap, forgive my brashness. Do you mean to imply that you, and this, are——?”

Wes’s arms went tight around Wilson’s neck.

Wilson’s pulse throbbed in his skull behind his eyes like a lobotomy pick driven in by mallet blows. He’d never do this. Normally, that is. Normally he was reserved with Wes in public. He didn’t have to flaunt anything. Everyone knew. But Warbucks, it seemed, didn’t know, and needed to know, and Wilson wanted him to find out just enough to leave him tongue-tied and second-guessing every word he’d say from this moment onward.

Wilson twisted in Wes’s grip and slid his hand up Wes’s chest to grab a handful of striped shirt. On cue, Wes leaned down, his chin at Wilson’s shoulder. Wilson craned his neck, put his other hand to Wes’s cheek, and gently tipped his jaw forward.

His lips were always soft as flower petals. No matter how many times Wilson felt them, his heart wobbled and his head spun cotton every time. He smacked one quiet kiss, then pursed his lips for another. The tension ebbed away.

He leaned back against Wes’s arm that encircled him. He couldn’t stop the lazy grin that smeared over his face as easily as Wes’s lipstick did. Warbucks sat on the log like a petrified lump. Veins protruded from his crinkled hands in an underground roadwork, and pinpoints of sweat glinted on his wrinkled leather forehead.

“See that? We’re regular, everyday people,” Wilson said. Not even winning the Nobel Prize could be more satisfying than this moment. He struggled to keep his voice casual and conversational and patted Wes’s chest. “If you’re looking for something interesting, I hear entomology is riveting, and there’s some pretty massive anthills a mile or so upstream. But my friends and I don’t care to be stuck under your magnifying glass.”

Warbucks stood so quickly that the log creaked, loud as a gunshot. He crammed the handkerchief into his pocket, adjusted his spectacles, and straightened his collar with a fumbling jerk.

“I beg your pardon, but I say, I really must be retiring for the night. Look at the time; I do say, look at the time. I believe that I shall be moving forward on the morrow, yes? It’s been quite a fascinating stay here, but we adventurers are a nomadic folk. Always one journey to another, what? Perhaps I’ll have myself a gander at those anthills. Ha! Anyway. Good night to you, Mister Wes and Mr. Pillsbury.”

With that, Warbucks tipped an invisible hat to bid them farewell and scuttled off. Wes and Wilson listened until the rustling of leaves and grass under boot heels faded into silence.

A sugary, fluttery sort of warmth swelled in Wilson’s chest. He sighed. Wes tucked him closer.

“That wasn’t too embarrassing. Right?” He smoothed his hand across Wes’s collar to flatten the wrinkles. “I just couldn’t stand the way that guy was talking about you. Ugh. I knew it was bad news from the start. Can anyone trust a guy who thinks humans with brains and manners are only found in England?”

Wes breathed a soft little laugh of appreciation. He bounced Wilson lightly against his arm, teasing.

“What! I’ve always had it in me. Just let me catch someone talking about you or any of our friends like we’re specimens. That person will then have to be cordially introduced to Logic and Reason.” He held up his fists before his face in a boxer’s stance. When Wes laughed again, he pushed one fist gently against Wes’s cheek.

“Oh, please. Willow isn’t the only one who can throw a punch. Lucky for the old guy, I got to take care of it this time.” He groaned. “Thank _god_ he’s leaving tomorrow. I don’t know how much more of that any of us could take.”

Wes hummed in thoughtful agreement.

Silence descended. It was a pleasant sort of silence. Crickets grated in the pearly grass around them. Stars glittered, sprinkled over the whipped blue clouds.

“I didn’t realize how nice it is tonight, Wessie.” Wilson poked a forefinger into Wes’s ribs. “How do you feel about celebrating?”


End file.
